Whatever We Become
by Demactica
Summary: Perhaps you wish you could go back to that autumn when you were both fifteen and reckless. Future Hernst, now with multiple chapters!
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own neither song nor Spring.

A/N: The song is Red Right Ankle by the lovely Decemberists. Ernst, second person (don't hate me). Dialogue at the beginning is all spoken by Hanschen, scattered over time. Please do ignore the & symbols, I couldn't get the desired spacing without them.

-x-

_This is the story of your red right ankle _

_And how it came to meet your leg _

_And how the muscle, bone, and sinews tangled _

_And how the skin was softly shed _

_And how it whispered, "Oh, adhere to me_

_"For we are bound by symmetry _

_"Whatever differences our lives have been _

_"We together make a limb"_

_&_

"We'll huddle over the Homer. Maybe do a little Achilles and Patroclus?"

"Those bells… So peaceful."

"Follow me. Home."

"Just breathe. It's okay. You don't have to do anything that you don't want to do."

"You're sure?"

"There… There, oh, oh, GOD!"

"Studying, sir. Biology."

"And so you should."

"Wait outside my back door at eleven o'clock tonight. Don't knock, I'll come for you."

"You're here after all."

"Ernst, I'll look for you at ten o'clock."

"I see you as a sort of blessing."

"Nine o'clock tonight. Don't leave me waiting."

"Because you're my first love."

_&_

_This is the story of your red right ankle_

_&_

So this is what love feels like. Pain, bliss, ecstasy, contentment, peace.

_&_

_This is the story of your gypsy uncle _

_You never knew 'cause he was dead_

_And how his face was carved and rift with wrinkles_

_In the picture in your head_

_And remember how you found the key_

_To his hideout in the Pyrenees_

_&_

Once, he almost cried in front of you, when you were both sixteen and he told you about his father and his plans to go to Munich once he has saved enough money and enough bravery, and maybe you could go with him. His smile was grand, and your heart really did ache.

_&_

_But you wanted to keep his__ secret safe_

_So you threw the key away_

_&_

You couldn't help but notice how he requests your presence less and less, and how he doesn't always wait for you after class now. Really, this only makes you drop your papers as you run to catch up, and, as the sun rises, cling to his bare, sleeping chest with tears in your eyes, as though it will be enough to keep him so close to you once he wakes.

_&_

_This is the story of your gypsy uncle_

_&_

And one day, he was gone.

_&_

_This is the story of the boys who loved you_

_&_

Years pass. He does not return. Your father dies the day before you finish school, and you bake bread for a living.

_&_

_Who love you now and loved you then_

_&_

Eventually, there are others.

Many others.

_&_

Perhaps you tell yourself that you can't stop living just to wait for him.

Perhaps you get angry.

Perhaps you wish you could go back to that autumn when you were both fifteen and reckless.

Really, there's no "perhaps" at all.

Still, you let Bertrand have you.

_&_

_And some were sweet and some were cold and snuffed you _

_And some just laid around in bed_

_&_

After Bertrand, it's Johann, then Adelric, Meinhard, Freidrech, Gunther.

_&_

_And some, they crumbled you straight to your knees_

_Did it cruel, did it tenderly_

_&_

This time, you know to keep your emotions congested in your chest. Still, they sometimes rise to your throat and settle into an awkward lump. Sometimes they nest in your stomach and swim around, fishlike, and other nights they needle into your spine and, with each heartbeat, stretch further into your head and fingertips and toes, and you ache.

_&_

_Some, they crawled their way into your heart_

_To rend your ventricles apart_

_&_

It pains you to think of Hanschen, even to think his name, but nonetheless, you do it constantly: whether he ever made it to Munich, whether he's regretful or lonely, or if he's already forgotten you altogether.

Ultimately it's this inane curiosity that spurs you to quit your job and take a train to Munich. Your knees shake as the train pulls to a stop.

_&_

_This is the story of the boys who loved you_

_&_

You've thoroughly prepared to spend weeks searching, but after only a blistering hour's worth of walking, _it's him_. It's him you can't breathe and your heart stops. It's him, and he's standing near the street with a beautiful woman. He smiles a magnificent smile and leans in to kiss her forehead and it's all too sickeningly familiar.

A final embrace before he helps her onto a bus, then she is gone.

A little sadly, he turns and merciful heavens he sees you and his eyes widen comically, but no one is laughing anymore. Hanging in the air between you, you can reach out and touch all that the two of you have shared - each grin, each caress, each whispered word heavy with lust.

A small, shaking step to him, unsteady as a foal, and he blinks hard and fast

_&_

_This is the story of your red right ankle_

_&_

and practically runs away.

A/N: So I'm not at all sure about this one. I think it's a lot different and sort of more melancholy than most of my other stuff, and even the writing process was different; more private, and I spent quite a long time on it. Personally, I'm a sucker for symbolism, so naturally I love symbolism interwoven throughout. Still, I know there are probably thousands of grammatical errors. Sorry, it's not my strong point, though I wish it was. But yes, the switch in tenses midway through was intentional.

I've distracted myself. What I intended to say was, please review _honestly_. Criticism is helping me, not hurting me. Just don't be rude. I still have feelings. x


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hanschen this time, same day. He uses a fake name; I'm not sure whether or not that would make any sense. Song is Use Somebody by the Kings of Leon. Andy Mientus and Christy Altomare (U.S. tour Hanschen and Wendla) actually just covered it. You can find it on TotallyTrucked's Tube of You, if you haven't already seen it.

_I've been roaming around _

_I was looking down at all I see_

_Painted faces fill the places I can't reach_

&

You're getting frustrated.

Again, you look out the window at the darkened street of a bad neighborhood on the outskirts of Munich. You sigh, because this time you see what you're looking for: a man's figure shrouded in a long coat, head down, hands in pockets, hurrying across the street toward the door. His breath rises in vaporous puffs made eerily solid by the light reflecting off the moon.

He knocks, and you crack the door just enough.

His whisper is low and urgent. "Moritz Gabor?"

"Yes."

What could another lie possibly do now?

&

Once he's dressed, he pockets the money laying on your nightstand and leaves.

Like a fly in a spider's web, you lie naked in the tangled bedsheets and feel sick.

&

_You know that I could use somebody_

_You know that I could use somebody_

_Someone like you_

&

And you can't sleep without Penelope there to stroke your hair or cuddle against your chest.

You probably wouldn't be able to sleep anyway.

Surely it was a mistake, a coincidence. Ernst Robel happened to be in Munich for something simple and unavoidable, like business. After all, he was downtown when you saw him. Downtown Munich. Munich, where you'd always told him you were going to escape to, and he knew you were never one to break promises.

Could he still possibly remember, after all these years?

Perhaps more vividly than you can.

&

_And all you know_

_And how you speak_

&

He's haunted by the firsts. The first time you kissed, the first time you touched each other _oh right there_, the first time you showed each other the way to get to heaven.

He's haunted by the firsts, you're harrowed by the lasts.

&

_Countless lovers under cover of the street_

&

Really, it was stupid, what you had. You both knew it could only end in disaster, but neither of you could stop coming back for more – no, not because you were addicted, but because everything fit. It was stupid, yes, but it fit.

You were polar opposites, and together you made a whole.

&

_You know that I could use somebody_

_You know that I could use somebody_

_Someone like you_

&

And you're sure of it. So really, what are you still doing in Munich?

You'll go to him.

You'll return to that god-awful village and bring him back with you, and it will be okay, because people don't really change. You're proof enough of that.

A week to sort out vacation from work, to make an excuse to Penelope, and you'll be gone.

&

_Off in the night_

_While you live it up_

_I'm off to sleep_

&

Now you can no longer fight off the slumber tugging at your eyelids, and with slumber come dreams.

&

_Waging wars to shape the poet and the beat_

&

You leave the office building and your head throbs. You've complied with the ridiculous office regulations and waited your five days for a break, and now you're free.

Penelope is standing on the bustling sidewalk, waiting, like she always is. You smirk and reach to embrace her. "Darling, I'm leaving tonight. For business."

&

_I hope it's gonna make you notice_

_I hope it's gonna make you notice_

_Someone like me_

_Someone like me_

&

You leave Penelope and rush home, haphazardly throwing necessities into a knapsack, which you forget in your hurry anyway.

The train station is larger than you remember. Its many lights blur perversely, making you stumble.

&

_Someone like me, somebody_

_Someone like you, somebody_

_Someone like you, somebody_

_Someone like you, somebody_

&

Your ticket is in your hand and you're being shot off at the speed of light in the general direction of where Starting happens again.

&

_I've been roaming around_

_I was looking down at all I see_

&

There's really nothing left to do but pray for forgiveness.

A/N: So it's almost 3 A.M. I'm not sure whether or not I'll be happy with this when I'm thinking straight, but I'm posting it anyway.

There will be one more chapter. I've already started writing it, actually. As always, reviews make my day worth living. x


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Spring Awakening is not mine, nor is any song, motion picture, etc. that may be alluded to herein.

A/N: Well, here it is, folks. Hanschen again. Song is Where Do My Bluebird Fly by Tallest Man on Earth. The lyrics might be inaccurate here and there; I couldn't really find a 100% accurate version of the lyrics, partially because the version on the CD and the versions online have slight variations in the lyrics department. However, the general message is still the same.

-x-

_Oh, well I know you stroke the setup, baby, of all the leaves up in the ground_

&

The seats of the train hurt your back and there are too many people for such a small compartment. You close your eyes and lean your forehead against the cool window, but it does little to comfort you as the glass rattles stoically against your skull.

You remind yourself again that _this is all for him_.

Yet you can't help but think about how you could be asleep in your own bed right now, with a woman at your side.

Why did he have to come and change everything?

&

_And I know our song is all but healthy as I see dry leaves fallin' down, oh_

&

After all, you're both older now. A long time has gone by since the last time you spoke, and time has a way of changing things. Maybe he's already found somebody new, although you doubt it. Ernst would cling to the things he cherished until the end of time. Or at least, that's how it used to be. Who knew how the boy has changed in the years since your disappearance? Perhaps he's found a new joy and has long since relinquished the past.

&

_With all this fever in my mind_

_I could drown in your kerosene eyes, oh_

&

You remember finding him kneeling on the grass at the foot of Moritz's grave, and exactly how his voice had cracked when he asked you if Moritz had gone to hell, after all - asked _you_, as though you were some divine messenger of the gods. You remember how you saw the glistening tear tracks on his cheeks and how your heart had melted, but then you knew that he could be yours. Alas, you also knew that you had to be careful, lest you become his in return.

"I don't know," you said. "He might be. Or he might be in heaven. Or he might still be here." The wind picked up, and you pictured Moritz dancing through the field of graves.

"Still here?"

"Maybe."

"You can... stay?"

"Not according to the Bible," you jab. "But I don't put too much stock in the Bible."

Ernst didn't respond. The seconds passed. You turned to leave, and then, a plead - "Hanschen..."

Ever the indirect one, but it was all either of you needed. You took a seat beside him and noticed how pale he looked in the midmorning sun.

"Friday at dusk, can you meet me at the gates to the old vineyard?"

The train begins to pull to a stop. You put your head in your hands. Even if he has relinquished the past, you haven't.

You're the only one getting off at this stop, this nowhere-town, and you leave with no luggage to collect.

&

_You're just a riddle in the sky_

_Oh, where do my bluebird fly?_

&

You would have recognized this town if you had seen it in a photo. Too many times you'd sat at the top of this hill outside of the train station and fantasized about leaving this place and never looking back. But now there is something changed about it, something a photograph couldn't capture. It's the same small German town where everyone knows everyone else, the same half-moon still hangs silent and statuesque, but now a sense of tragedy presses down upon the crumbling steeple and dusty forest.

There is usually fog before the sun rises, and today is no different. The pure expanse of the vapor combined with the low-hanging, dark clouds makes everything appear frozen, and you wonder briefly if the town was abandoned years ago. Then, to your relief, at the bottom of the hill you see a dark figure moving through the mist toward the church.

Unmistakably, it's Ernst. Strangely, this calms you. You notice with amusement that although he's grown taller, he still moves awkwardly, with the same lanky frame.

Instead of entering the building as you had expected, his path twists and heads to the back of the church, where the graveyard is. Time really does change things. You can't say you're surprised about it, this fascination with death he's apparently developed. Ever since Moritz's suicide, you could tell that he was different - maybe not much, but there was still that little bit. And surely at least one of his parents' hearts had given out by now.

&

_And when you find the voice and gears of sunset_

_We'll hear that high and lonesome sound, oh_

&

You trot down the hill and call out to him. "Ernst!" You see his shadow quicken its pace and disappear around the side of the building.

&

_And I will question every wind_

_If they gone through the glow of your eyes, oh_

&

You enter the gate and there is Moritz's headstone. You hastily whisper to him, "I'll come back before I go, I have something important to do - you understand." And you know that he does - maybe even more than you do.

&

_You're just a riddle in the sky_

_Oh, where do my bluebird fly?_

_I say where do my bluebird fly?_

&

"Ernst!"

The dark valley graveyard is filled to the brim with early-morning fog, and it doesn't take long before you're turned around.

"Please, where are you?"

&

_Oh, well I know you stroke your feathers, baby_

_Upon the ghosts along my trail_

&

"Hanschen!" And it can't be from more than a yard behind you that that voice sings out your name, that glorious, blissful voice you haven't heard in so many years. You whip around with the biggest smile you've worn in centuries.

&

_And I know your lie was sold and buried_

_Before I knew it was for sale, oh_

&

And you see just the stone.

&

_With all this fever in my mind_

_I should aim for your kerosene eyes, oh_

_You're just a target in the sky_

&

You read, "Here rests Ernst Robel, 1876-1902. Matthew 20:16"

&

_I say, where do my bluebird fly?_

_I say, where do my bluebird fly?_

-x-

A/N: You know you want to click the button and type lots of words. I wouldn't write if it weren't for your feedback. x


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